Mother’s Day is Sunday, so of course, I’m going to write about my mom.
Again, you might think? To which I say: my blog. My mother. My rules. (Who am I kidding? From an early age, I knew one truth: my mother makes the rules.)
Ever since I was a toddler, running barefoot through the cow manure, my mother has told me what to do. Like how I shouldn’t run barefoot through cow manure, because you can get ringworm. Or hookworm. Something gross and parasitic and deterring enough to keep me in shoes. She told me to just try to go before we left the house, something I still do to this day. (When I got older, Mom finally told me the whole reasoning behind this advice: just try to go before you leave, because with as much coffee as we drink, we’ll inevitably have to go again before we even get to our destination.) She gave me advice on boys and friends and good books to read. When I was a teenager, I of course soundly ignored this advice, which is undoubtedly why I wound up friendless, dating a loser, and reading The Grapes of Wrath. I will go on the record now as saying I did not enjoy The Grapes of Wrath in the slightest. Not one word of it. See? It was a hard lesson to learn, but Mom was . . . right.
When I got to college, I found myself without my mother there every day to tell me how to live my life. My roommate was not so good at advising me to turn off General Hospital and get my paper written, or to avoid mushrooms, because apparently it’s a genetic predisposition handed down from mother to daughter that mushrooms can cause severe intestinal distress. Also, my roommate would never tell me I looked beautiful every morning, something my mother was also pretty good for. It was quite a culture shock.
I’ll admit that the newfound freedom was kind of nice. I could do whatever I wanted (within reason—I wasn’t robbing banks or killing people. My mother raised me better then that). I could—I could do—whatever . . . I . . . wanted.
I had no idea what I wanted to do.
So I called Mom. “I have to pick a major,” I said. “What do I choose?”
And in one of the single most fabulous moments in our relationship, she told me. “I’m not going to tell you what your major should be,” Mom said.
What? For years, she’d been given me unsolicited advice. Now I was coming to her, asking her for the answer, and she wasn’t going to tell me?
“You need to decide that for yourself,” she continued. “What do you enjoy doing the most?”
I was stupefied. I’m not sure anyone had ever asked me that before. I hadn’t really thought about it. Plus, I was still stunned that she hadn’t just given me the answer. “I don’t know. What do I like?”
Mom still refused to tell me. (She did advise me that perhaps mushroom farmer would not be the best choice.) I hung up. I was terrified. I had to make my first real grown-up choice, and it was a pretty important one. If I chose poorly, I’d have to go back to college for a master’s degree in something completely different, and I was pretty sure my parents wouldn’t foot the bill.
I called her back a couple of days later. I’d thought about it long and hard. Even turned off General Hospital to give the matter more serious consideration. I took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing,” I started. “I’ve always loved reading. And I love writing. I think I want to be an English major.”
I could hear Mom smiling through the phone. “Sounds good. I think you’re making the right decision.”
Whew.
The good news is, Mom was right. I did make the right decision. And though she didn’t tell me what to do with my life, she told me exactly the right thing to get me to that choice.
So thanks, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day!
Stuff you might have missed from The Storyside:
"Deadlines and Time Travel" by Rob Smales
"No One Here Gets Out Alive" by Vlad V.
"An Afternoon with Aunt Gretchen" by Ursula Wong
Again, you might think? To which I say: my blog. My mother. My rules. (Who am I kidding? From an early age, I knew one truth: my mother makes the rules.)
Ever since I was a toddler, running barefoot through the cow manure, my mother has told me what to do. Like how I shouldn’t run barefoot through cow manure, because you can get ringworm. Or hookworm. Something gross and parasitic and deterring enough to keep me in shoes. She told me to just try to go before we left the house, something I still do to this day. (When I got older, Mom finally told me the whole reasoning behind this advice: just try to go before you leave, because with as much coffee as we drink, we’ll inevitably have to go again before we even get to our destination.) She gave me advice on boys and friends and good books to read. When I was a teenager, I of course soundly ignored this advice, which is undoubtedly why I wound up friendless, dating a loser, and reading The Grapes of Wrath. I will go on the record now as saying I did not enjoy The Grapes of Wrath in the slightest. Not one word of it. See? It was a hard lesson to learn, but Mom was . . . right.
When I got to college, I found myself without my mother there every day to tell me how to live my life. My roommate was not so good at advising me to turn off General Hospital and get my paper written, or to avoid mushrooms, because apparently it’s a genetic predisposition handed down from mother to daughter that mushrooms can cause severe intestinal distress. Also, my roommate would never tell me I looked beautiful every morning, something my mother was also pretty good for. It was quite a culture shock.
I’ll admit that the newfound freedom was kind of nice. I could do whatever I wanted (within reason—I wasn’t robbing banks or killing people. My mother raised me better then that). I could—I could do—whatever . . . I . . . wanted.
I had no idea what I wanted to do.
So I called Mom. “I have to pick a major,” I said. “What do I choose?”
And in one of the single most fabulous moments in our relationship, she told me. “I’m not going to tell you what your major should be,” Mom said.
What? For years, she’d been given me unsolicited advice. Now I was coming to her, asking her for the answer, and she wasn’t going to tell me?
“You need to decide that for yourself,” she continued. “What do you enjoy doing the most?”
I was stupefied. I’m not sure anyone had ever asked me that before. I hadn’t really thought about it. Plus, I was still stunned that she hadn’t just given me the answer. “I don’t know. What do I like?”
Mom still refused to tell me. (She did advise me that perhaps mushroom farmer would not be the best choice.) I hung up. I was terrified. I had to make my first real grown-up choice, and it was a pretty important one. If I chose poorly, I’d have to go back to college for a master’s degree in something completely different, and I was pretty sure my parents wouldn’t foot the bill.
I called her back a couple of days later. I’d thought about it long and hard. Even turned off General Hospital to give the matter more serious consideration. I took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing,” I started. “I’ve always loved reading. And I love writing. I think I want to be an English major.”
I could hear Mom smiling through the phone. “Sounds good. I think you’re making the right decision.”
Whew.
The good news is, Mom was right. I did make the right decision. And though she didn’t tell me what to do with my life, she told me exactly the right thing to get me to that choice.
So thanks, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day!
Stuff you might have missed from The Storyside:
"Deadlines and Time Travel" by Rob Smales
"No One Here Gets Out Alive" by Vlad V.
"An Afternoon with Aunt Gretchen" by Ursula Wong
Mom and me.
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